just writing my heart out

she/her | anthropology student | sunflower fan not a poet, just a soul who yearns and is chaotic.

[galecstatic]

don't forget to claim your ticket!!!!!!!

[helianthusamoenus]

I’m so tired of hookup culture in movies and people, as an alloromantic asexual. Like… the norm being hooking up/one night stands and THEN the story developing makes me feel broken and hopeless, since I’m more keen on slowly getting to know someone. My friends starting relationships after making out or having a casual party affair, my peers telling me that my romantic ways are outdated, the movies telling me that I’ll only find someone if I feel physically attracted to a stranger between noise, alcohol and things I won’t be able to understand… no wonder there’s so many ace people who feel like they’ll die alone or that they won’t be able to find their own concept of romance. Hookup culture/casual sex culture as the only(tm) catalyst for romance is something I loath. Give me the slow burn. The getting to know each other beforehand so we Know we’re compatible. The hushed giggles, the stolen glimpses, the perfumed letters… the shy hand brushes and the secrets unfolded just by a heartbeat. I need the reassurance that those things still mean something in the beginning of a story.

[helianthusamoenus]

I have no object permanence. If something, or someone, isn’t in my near sight or grasp, I’ll eventually end up forgetting about it, or them. It’s terrible to deal with, since I tend to lose stuff- and people.

It’s a lie when I promise to remember someone who’s leaving or traveling. I won’t. I eventually will if there’s something that evokes their presence to my brain, like a specific color, flower, song, etcetera. But otherwise, they will be forgotten until they text me, call me or come back. And it sucks, because I need to capture my memories in pictures who will come back to me as to not forget my life happenings. I need to photograph or draw important events and people in my life to not forget them. I need to record their voices; laughing, singing or talking, as to not forget what our conversations were like. My elders often complain that I never call them, or that I do it infrequently. And I apologize, only to forget, them arguing with me, me feeling like the worst person ever and the cycle repeating each and every time. It probably won’t change. And I hate it.

I try to make myself the habit to check up on others in frequent periods of time, but I always end up doing so after something else reminds me of them and triggers their presence in my mind, going in a “oh, right, they exist!” thought. And it has no filters. I forget about my family, friends and even myself. Hell, if I don’t look in a mirror frequently I forget that I’m… there. That I’m a person, a presence in this universe. And I hate it. I hate it so much. I try to be a good daughter, niece and friend. But the lack of permanence in everything just ruins it all for me. So, I manage to make everything about my loved ones. Playlists with songs that remind me of friends. Pinterest boards of flowers, colors and aesthetics regarding a specific person. Characters that channel someone’s energy for me to remember them. I need to remember. I need to be reminded. Otherwise, my brain would be perfectly content in a loop of things that only involve me and what I’m doing in the moment. And it’s cruel to them. I feel cruel. I feel selfish. But it’s hard to change what’s already set up in my brain since birth whether I like it or not.

It makes me fear my mind when I get old. Will I end up forgetting about everything and everyone outside of the room I’ll be in a certain moment? Will I fail to evoke my dear ones’ presences in external stimuli, forever condemned to never be remembered again? Will I end up becoming the disdainful, uncaring and egotistical being I dread to look like now?

[inkskinned]

i think a lot about exactly 1 thing from the roman empire: the concept of bread and circus. the idea was that if your population was fed and entertained, they wouldn't revolt. you are asking us to give up our one small life, is the thing - for under 15 dollars an hour.

what would that buy, even. i am trading weekends and late nights and my back health. i am trading slow mornings and long walks and cortisol levels. i am trading sleep and silence and peace. for ... this. for what barely-covers-rent.

life really is more expensive right now. you aren't making that up. i make almost 3 times what i did 5 years ago, and despite an incredibly equal series of bills - i am still struggling. the most expensive line item i added was to own a dog. the money is just evaporating.

we were okay with it because it's a cost-benefit analysis. i could handle the customer harassment and standing all day and the manager's constantly changing temperament - i was coming home to hope, and my life planned in a blue envelope. three hours would buy me my dog's food for a month. i can give up three hours for him, for his shiny coat and wide, happy mouth. three days could be a new mattress, if i was thrifty. if i really scrimped and saved, we could maybe afford a trip into the city.

recently i cried in the car about the price of groceries.

business majors will be mad at me, but my most inflammatory opinion is that people should never be valued at the same place as products. your staff should not be a series of numbers in an excel sheet that you can just "replace" whenever you need something at that moment. your staff should be people, end of sentence.

it feels like someone somewhere is playing a very bad video game. like my life is a toy. like someone opened an app on their phone and hired me in diner dash ultra. they don't need to pay me well or treat me alright - they can always just show me the door. there is always someone more desperate, always someone more willing.

but i go to work and know i could save for years and not afford housing. i am never going to own my own home, most likely. i have no idea how to afford her ring, much less the wedding. my dog doesn't have his own yard. everything i love is on subscription. if i lose my job, i have no "nest egg" to catch my falling.

this thin life - they want me to give up summer for it. to open my mouth and throat and swallow the horrible hours and counted keystrokes. they want me to give up mountains and any non-federal holiday. to give up snow days. to give up talking to my mom whenever i want. to give up visiting the ocean and hearing the waves.

bread and circus worked for a while, actually. it was the kind of plan that would probably now be denounced by republicans as socialist commie liberal pronoun bullshit.

but sometimes i wonder if we should point them to the part of the history book that says: it worked until it didn't.

[historicallytired]

I had a dream

It was snowing in Paris 

Warm cheeked and pink nosed 

Someone was there

Hand in mine 

The ice and fluff crunched beneath us 

Two white and red monsters

Wrapped in coats of bliss 

Scarves of laughter

The flakes fell heavy and dutiful 

Soldiers marching downwards 

Lights sparkled like bombs exploding 

On the wet street below 

We needed nothing else 

No one else 

I could not see you 

But I knew you were there 

While it was snowing in Paris 

[helianthusamoenus]

I’m so tired of hookup culture in movies and people, as an alloromantic asexual. Like… the norm being hooking up/one night stands and THEN the story developing makes me feel broken and hopeless, since I’m more keen on slowly getting to know someone. My friends starting relationships after making out or having a casual party affair, my peers telling me that my romantic ways are outdated, the movies telling me that I’ll only find someone if I feel physically attracted to a stranger between noise, alcohol and things I won’t be able to understand… no wonder there’s so many ace people who feel like they’ll die alone or that they won’t be able to find their own concept of romance. Hookup culture/casual sex culture as the only(tm) catalyst for romance is something I loath. Give me the slow burn. The getting to know each other beforehand so we Know we’re compatible. The hushed giggles, the stolen glimpses, the perfumed letters… the shy hand brushes and the secrets unfolded just by a heartbeat. I need the reassurance that those things still mean something in the beginning of a story.

[helianthusamoenus]

Studying archeology as someone who feeds herself off fake scenarios is sick as hell because you HAVE to put scenarios with the pieces you’ve collected and the context you have in your hands. I have to illustrate and investigate the ‘could have been’s, the conditional realm our past is attached to, and honor my curiosity with acknowledging a past that is either cool or horrifying to create a present that shows this past for the future’s education and knowledge. What’s better than that?!

[helianthusamoenus]

And when she calls me princess I bloom in all of spring’s colors, waiting for her to return from her lab job with a tired smile and her long, long hair in a messy hairstyle. We giggle, I hug her tightly, and suddenly loving someone who makes me feel inferior just so I get taken care of like I couldn’t in the past is not a thing anymore. And it’s scary, it’s so goddamned scary. But breaking the cycle and throwing myself into a lavender prairie with dimples who make me cry and make me want to work hard to see them frequently, is worth it enough. Who know what will come out of this, but I’m sure the low key feeling of wanting to date her is absolutely not the gut wrenching anger and fear I feel when someone I’ve categorized as a caretaker is with someone else. The conflicting realities are a roller coaster and boy do I fear heights. But after the ride, hyacinths blossom and laboratories are scrutinized with a sweet voice and a chocolate bar, so I think it’s worth the trip.

[helianthusamoenus]

It’s baffling when I realize that the shadow was me all along. The angry voice who wants to see my loved ones suffer so they knew what I went through, the fearful voice who shrieks whenever I dare to do something, the voice who sneers at the minimal demonstration of needing space, begging to not be forgotten or abandoned, wasn’t really a shadow who loomed with its one eye watching me. She was a teenager, enraged version of myself wanting to escape, run and make justice for all the things she repressed her anger for. She’s the one who screams at anyone daring to not reply to my texts, the one who has no patience left, who is sobbing to grab someone’s hand. It’s shocking to let the ‘you’re your own worst enemy’ thought really, really sink in and internalize it. It’s hard to accept that I’m trying to make amends with her, the one who wants me to take revenge on everything and everyone for her cruel stories. She fights with me, and I don’t want to relent, but isn’t it heartbreaking that the darkest part and the most toxic side of oneself has to fight with you sometimes in order to live instead of surviving?

[helianthusamoenus]

you're sooo good in all you do! i really admire you and i admit, i hate write or talk in english in front of you i'm very very bad.

anyways, i love u, i'm so happy of be your friend

Oh, dear, let me hug you when we see each other

[heartofmuse]

You stay,

You always stay,

Through the night,

In my lines,

On my lips,

On my skin,

As starlight and dreams,

In my mind,

Like a caress,

In my heart,

Like a song,

In every second of this life,

That I love you,

With all my soul.

e.v.e.

[esuemmanuel]

Porque, cuando se ama de verdad, se está inspirado y lo único que haces es escribir bajo la tutela de ese brote de inspiración. Sentir amor es algo que no se puede esconder, mucho menos cuando se tiene la pluma en las manos; te deshaces escribiendo de ello, y nada tiene que ver con que la persona te ame o no, te sienta o no. Eres libre de sentir lo que te place y vuelas… No te enajenas con si el objeto de tu amor te lee o no, porque eres escritor y lo más que anhelas es escribir lo que estás sintiendo en el alma.

— Esu Emmanuel©, Because, when you really love, you are inspired and all you do is write under the tutelage of that burst of inspiration. Feeling love is something you can't hide, much less when you have your pen in your hands; you get rid of it by writing about it, and it has nothing to do with whether the person loves you or not, feels you or not. You are free to feel what pleases you and you fly… You are not alienated by whether the object of your love reads you or not, because you are a writer and the most you long for is to write what you are feeling in your soul.

[screamon-deactivated20230625]

audrey niffenegger

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

The spring and summer unfolded with myriad flowers that burned with a hot flame. The pines smelled oily and were decked out with cones. There was an odor of wormwood. Everything bloomed and ripened: reeds, chicory, harebells, buttercups, mountain ash, pansies, prickly thistles.

In May the nights were blue.

In June they were greenish-white.

– Boris Pilnyak, from “Above the Ravine,” The Tale of the Unextinguished Moon and Other Stories (Washington Square Press, 1967)

[mysterieuxclairdelune]

"People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips."

-Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

[helianthusamoenus]

Sometimes, sadness can be felt at my fingertips just with the smidge of a ghost. Not even a full one. Just a past smile, a hug that won’t happen again, a warm conversation before that big misunderstanding or a barely recognizable dream where that conflict that broke bonds never happened. Sometimes, you don’t need an utopia to feel a melancholic, happy emptiness. Sometimes all you need is the nostalgia for voices that will not be sounding in your direction as warm and as safe as they were anymore.